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Raw Silk
Anne Mather









Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!


I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com (mailto:mystic-am@msn.com) and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.




Raw Silk

Anne Mather







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Table of Contents


Cover (#u8606fec7-9b7c-5825-b094-8532853eeecc)

About the Author (#u98adcfff-2256-5156-b735-d79db2d81491)

Title Page (#u59c8b659-d3be-5b62-951c-c3c264797c48)

CHAPTER ONE (#uaa93bc17-fe4a-5285-9af7-8334e084fdb5)

CHAPTER TWO (#uce5cac29-4d45-592e-817b-838310111335)

CHAPTER THREE (#uf79282bb-07eb-554f-a8d1-207c44dce7ac)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u2be49019-c620-56a6-afd9-b611dbde3952)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_d803a847-2199-559a-abc2-dd5249a9e782)


THE sunset was spectacular, spilling its crimson light over clouds that already had a tinge of purple about them. It wasn’t gentle, and it wasn’t peaceful, but its sombre, brooding presence mirrored Oliver’s mood.

He stood at the apartment window, long legs braced, shoulders set, hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, gazing out at the view that encompassed half the Tsim Sha Tsui peninsula. It should have soothed him, but it didn’t. By anyone’s reckoning it was impressive, with the hillside falling away to give an uninterrupted view of the harbour. And there was the Hong Kong skyline rising across the water, acres of solid real estate in concrete, steel and glass. But Oliver was not impressed; he scarcely even saw it.

‘But, darling, you have to come with me!’

Behind him, Rose Chen’s voice persisted in its persuasive refrain. For over an hour the delicate Chinese girl had been trying to convince him that she couldn’t go to England without him, and for equally that long Oliver had been insisting that she must.

‘Why?’ he asked again, for at least the tenth time. ‘You’re not a child, Rose. You don’t need me to hold your hand.’

‘Oh, but I do!’ With a little cry, Rose Chen abandoned the provocative position she had been sustaining on the wide, oriental-quilted bed, and came to drape herself about him. With the sole of one foot sensuously caressing his calf, and her arms wound around his waist, her soft cheek pressed against his spine, she repeated her assertion. ‘Darling, I’ve never been to London. You have. I need you to come with me. They’re going to hate me, aren’t they? I need your support.’

Oliver withstood her concerted attempts to arouse him with admirable restraint. It would be so easy to succumb to her allure, so easy to relax and give in to everything she asked of him. Rose Chen was nothing if not dedicated in everything she did, and the sinuous little body, clad only in a silk robe, arched against his back, was undeniably tempting. Even though he was dressed, he could feel her pointed little breasts through the thin silk of his shirt.

But unfortunately for Rose Chen Oliver had a strength of will that equalled her own. And he also knew that the Chinese girl wasn’t half as helpless as she liked him to think. Rose Chen could be quite ruthless when it came to business, and he had no doubt at all that she could handle her London relations without any assistance from him.

And that reminded him that he had to stop thinking of her as being wholly Chinese. She wasn’t. She was half English. Amazingly, she had been James Hastings’ daughter. Not his mistress, as his own government had believed, but the illegitimate offspring of a liaison Hastings had had before Oliver had thought of crawling through the stinking jungles of South-east Asia. Which had altered the situation considerably …

‘You’ll make it,’ he assured her now, removing the slim hand which had been attempting to unzip his fly, aware as he did so of the half-hearted arousal she had achieved. Obviously, his body was not as easy to control as his mind, which was some justification for the frustrated cry his action solicited.

‘Don’t you want me?’ she exclaimed, her oval eyes narrowed and appealing, and Oliver wondered, somewhat ruefully, why he’d let it get this far.

But when he’d been recruited by a United States government agency to carry out a surveillance operation on James Hastings he had found a small irony in attracting and seducing the woman he had believed to be the Englishman’s mistress.

Rose Chen had worked with James Hastings. She knew him well. When he had visited the Colony, he had stayed in the same apartment building she did. Not in the same apartment, as Oliver now knew, but that was splitting hairs. The fact remained that James Hastings had treated her rather well, and Rose Chen lived in vastly superior surroundings to those her salary at the import and export company Hastings had run would warrant.

Besides, it had seemed such a satisfactory solution to the problem of getting close enough to James Hastings to find out his comings and goings. No one, least of all the arrogant Englishman, had suspected Oliver of being anything more than the war-weary veteran he appeared. Hong Kong was full of drop-outs from one part of the world or another, and it was true that when Oliver had arrived in the territories he had been nothing more nor less than any of his fellow exiles.

In the beginning he hadn’t much cared about anything or anybody. He was still escaping the horrors of a war that had gone so dreadfully wrong. He didn’t care about the future. He tried not to think about the past. He lived his life from day to day, seeking oblivion with any kind of anaesthetic available.

Of course, his family had expected him to return to the United States when his term of duty was over, but Oliver hadn’t done that. Not then. He couldn’t bear the thought of returning home to Maple Falls, where life was so clean and simple. His mind was still trapped in the jungle, with the poor, pathetic victims of someone else’s conflict.

Ironically enough, it was the army that had eventually rescued him, and restored his self-respect. Or his retired commanding officer, to be precise. Colonel Archibald Lightfoot had swept him off the streets—where he had been living since his severance pay ran out—and installed him in a rehabilitation clinic. And by the time his system had been laundered his mind was clear as well. That was when he had returned to the States—but only for a visit. The colonel had persuaded him he could be some use to him in the territories, and instead of becoming the youngest district attorney in his home state of Virginia he had returned to Hong Kong.

Naturally, his family had been disappointed. His father, once an attorney himself, but now a Supreme Court judge, had expected his eldest son to follow in his footsteps. His younger brothers and sisters were all employed in one aspect of the law or another, all safely married and settled, and a credit to the family. Only Oliver had refused to conform; only Oliver had let them down: first, by volunteering for Vietnam, and then by returning to live in South-east Asia.

These days his family knew better than to criticise his motives. His work for the Hong Kong government, and for the United States agency involved in the control of narcotic substances, had enabled him to amass a fairly substantial bank account, and although his job required him to live in fairly modest surroundings he owned an apartment in Kowloon just as comfortable as Rose Chen’s. He was a valued member of Colonel Lightfoot’s staff, and when he eventually chose to return to the United States he had the necessary contacts to find suitable employment there.

Of course, Rose Chen knew nothing of his involvement with the agency. So far as she was concerned, Oliver lived by his wits, making enough money from so-called ‘deals’ the agency sent his way to enable him to support the lifestyle he maintained. The fact that he seldom discussed his own affairs had convinced her that what he was doing wasn’t exactly legal, a belief he nurtured on every possible occasion. He had wanted Rose, and James Hastings, to think he was corruptible. It suited his purposes very well.

Not that Oliver was thinking of this now as he watched the glittering display of neon that was emerging as the lights were turned on in the tall buildings lower down the hillside and across the water. Darkness gave the city a different kind of energy, an energy that masked the abject poverty found on the streets below.

‘I’m not coming to London,’ he stated flatly, moving out of her embrace. ‘I’ll take you to the airport, but that’s as far as I go.’

Rose Chen’s rose-tinted lips took on a sulky curve. ‘Suntong will take me to the airport,’ she declared shortly, and Oliver inclined his dark head.

‘Of course he will,’ he agreed, acknowledging her new authority over her father’s massively fat chauffeur. ‘So …’ He spread his hands. ‘When are you planning on leaving?’

‘Soon.’

Rose Chen regarded him with dark hostile eyes. The evidence of her frustration was there in every line of her slim, provocative body. Rose Chen generally got what she wanted, and right now she wanted him. Wanted him so badly, in fact, that she had even risked the wrath of her employer.

No, not her employer, Oliver reminded himself yet again. Her father! The father she hadn’t known she’d had until his death in England had necessitated the news to be conveyed to her. It had been there, in his will, all along. As well as the son, who had expected to inherit his father’s company, James Hastings had at last acknowledged the existence of his daughter. Rose Chen was to share everything he had left, including half his assets in London.

‘Please, Lee,’ she begged now, and Oliver realised that, while he had been considering what this new development might mean to his investigation, Rose Chen’s face had undergone another change of expression. ‘Please,’ she said again, ‘change your mind. This is all so new to me. Jay-Jay never even hinted that he might be—that he was my——’ She broke off and wrung her slender hands together. ‘You can’t know what this means to me. If only I’d known …’

Oliver’s sympathies were stirred. He knew, better than anyone, how persuasive Rose Chen could be if she set her mind to it. Images of her naked body entwined with his were all too vivid a memory when she looked at him that way, and in the pearly evening twilight her sexuality was almost irresistible.

‘And what am I supposed to do while you deal with these new relatives of yours?’ he enquired softly, as the obvious reaction Colonel Lightfoot would have to her sudden change of status forced him to reconsider. It was almost certain that the colonel would consider the opportunity for a closer look at the London end of Hastings’ operation too important to miss, and, while Oliver had no real desire to accompany her, the prospect of an expenses-paid trip to England was not unappealing.

Rose Chen’s oval eyes widened. ‘You’ll come?’ She caught her breath and started towards him. ‘Oh, Lee——’

‘I didn’t say that,’ he stalled her, holding up a warning hand. ‘I was just curious to know how you would introduce me. I don’t think your brother will welcome an intruder.’

‘You mean another intruder,’ said Rose Chen shrewdly, and then snapped her fingers. ‘What do I care what—Robert,’ she said the name experimentally, ‘thinks? He hasn’t even responded to the fax I sent him when I was first informed of Jay-Jay’s death. Before I even knew Jay-Jay was my father.’ Her lips twisted. ‘It was a shock even then.’

Oliver shrugged. ‘I doubt it’s been easy for Robert either,’ he remarked drily, but Rose Chen’s expression showed no compassion.

‘No,’ she answered, her tone mirroring little concern for her half-brother’s feelings. She looked pensive for a moment, and then, as if dismissing what she had been thinking, she looked at him again. ‘So—will you come with me? It would mean so much to me if you would. You’re the only person I care two figs about.’

Oliver’s mouth thinned. ‘What about your mother?’

‘Her?’ Rose Chen looked contemptuous. ‘She’s never cared about me, so why should I care about her? Besides, she doesn’t approve of me. She never wanted me to work for Jay-Jay in the first place. Now, I know why.’

Oliver frowned. ‘Does she know about——?’ He paused and arched his brows with obvious intent. ‘Have you seen her since the lawyer contacted you?’

‘No.’ Rose Chen pushed her hands inside the wide sleeves of her robe and hugged them to her. ‘It’s nothing to do with her. Jay-Jay didn’t care about her. He cared about me. If only he’d told me. If only I’d known.’ Privately, Oliver doubted James Hastings had cared about anyone but himself. Why else had he kept Rose Chen’s identity a secret from her all these years? Her mother, a frail old woman whom Oliver had only seen once, and then only by chance, probably had more feelings for her estranged daughter than James Hastings had ever had. And his reasons for acknowledging his daughter now might have more to do with safeguarding his reputation than any sense of justice.

As for his wife and son in England …

Oliver could well imagine this turn of events had been a salutary blow to them. They couldn’t have known of Rose Chen’s existence either. But what did they know of James Hastings’ dealings? That was the question. What did Rose Chen know, for that matter? How closely had she been trusted?

‘You’ll go with her, of course.’

Colonel Lightfoot’s reaction was predictably positive. The burly professional soldier looked positively delighted at the prospect, his brows jerking excitedly, his bushy moustache quivering as he licked his fleshy lips.

‘Will I?’ Oliver leaned back in the chair across the desk, and propped one booted ankle across his knee. ‘What if I don’t want to go to England? What if I have other commitments here in the Colony?’

‘Your only commitment is to me, Lynch,’ began the colonel brusquely, and then, as if remembering that coercion had never worked with this particular operative, he allowed a cajoling note to enter his voice. ‘Come on, Oliver,’ he urged. ‘We can’t let the bastard get away with it. And until we know for certain how they’re dealing with the stuff in England, we don’t stand a rat’s ass of making a conviction stick.’

Oliver considered the older man’s words for a few moments, and then said, ‘You believe Rose is involved, don’t you?’

The colonel looked grim. ‘Don’t you?’

Oliver swung his leg to the floor and got up from his seat. Then, scowling, he paced across the floor. ‘I suppose so.’

The colonel regarded him dourly. ‘It doesn’t bother you, does it?’ He paused. ‘You’re not——’ his mouth compressed as if he disliked having to ask the question ‘—in love with the girl, are you?’

Oliver’s expression was sardonic now. ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘No, I’m not in love with her, Colonel. But—I suppose I care about what’s going to happen to her. You can’t sleep with a woman for almost six months without feeling some responsibility.’

The colonel’s brows lowered above broad cheekbones, and he tapped an impatient finger on his desk. ‘Might I remind you that Rose Chen probably knew exactly what she was doing? You may feel that you seduced her, but our sweet little dragon lady was desperate for your body.’

Oliver’s lips twisted. ‘You know that, of course.’

‘I know that Hastings didn’t trust you. I know he’d have separated you if he could.’

Oliver frowned. ‘He knew about us?’

The colonel sighed. ‘Yes. Didn’t I tell you?’ But Oliver could tell from his manner that he’d made a mistake.

He came to rest his hands on the colonel’s desk, pushing his face close to that of his superior. ‘No, you bloody well didn’t,’ he retorted, his stomach tightening at the risks he had been taking. ‘God, Colonel, if Rose had been his mistress, Hastings could have had me killed!’

‘Oh, I think you’re exaggerating,’ muttered the colonel, but they both knew life was cheap among the criminal fraternity of Hong Kong. And if Hastings had been the man they’d thought him, disposing of a possible rival wouldn’t have proved at all difficult.

Oliver swore, loudly and succinctly, before withdrawing his hands from the desk. Then, pushing them into the pockets of his trousers, he gazed long and hostilely at his employer. ‘I’m dispensable, is that it?’ he asked at last, and Colonel Lightfoot uttered a frustrated oath before getting up from his desk.

‘No,’ he said wearily, coming round the desk. ‘For God’s sake, man, if I’d thought there was the slightest danger——’

‘Did you know Rose Chen was Hastings’ daughter? I mean—before his will was read?’

‘I—suspected it.’ The colonel sighed. ‘Oliver, I’m sorry if you think I should have been more honest with you. But I couldn’t risk your saying something that might have jeopardised the operation.’

Oliver’s mouth curled. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’ Colonel Lightfoot gazed at him unhappily, and then, when it became obvious that Oliver wasn’t going to buy that, he added heavily, ‘We wanted Hastings to show his hand.’

‘By killing me?’ Oliver found he was amazingly indifferent to the suggestion.

‘No, not by killing you.’ Colonel Lightfoot conversely was growing increasingly desperate. ‘Oliver—there was always a chance, a hope, that Hastings might attempt to recruit you.’

‘To recruit me?’

‘Of course.’ The colonel nodded. ‘If Rose Chen is involved, and, as I’ve told you, we think she is, isn’t it a natural progression? She wanted you; she wants you. If, as we surmise, she refused to give you up, Hastings must have realised it was the only way to guarantee your silence.’

Oliver was silent for a moment. Then, he said, ‘You hoped he would, didn’t you?’ He expelled his breath disbelievingly. ‘You gave me this assignment because you thought I’d be the fall guy. Hey,’ his voice harshened as he imitated the colonel’s voice, ‘why not give this one to Lynch? He’s an ex-junkie, isn’t he? He came out of Vietnam so screwed up, he didn’t know what day it is. So what if Hastings grinds him down? Once a junkie, always a junkie, that’s what I say!’

‘That’s not how it was,’ insisted the colonel heavily. ‘Dammit, Oliver, you know what I think of you; what I’ve always thought of you. You’re a fine man, and a damn fine soldier. I gave you this assignment because you were the best man for the job. And if Hastings hadn’t bought the farm we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’

‘No, we wouldn’t.’ Oliver flinched away from the reassuring hand the colonel attempted to lay on his shoulder. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he added, ‘OK, Colonel, I’ll go to London. I’ll do what you want this time, but don’t fix any more assignments for me, right? Suddenly I’ve got a yen to see Maple Falls again. And, you know what? Even the idea of taking that job as an assistant district attorney doesn’t sound so bad after all. I guess I’m getting old. Too old to be—jerked off—by someone like you!’




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_ca52fa86-598e-5d57-9d56-a66910bfec5f)


‘DEUCE.’

‘It’s game. The ball was out. I saw it.’

‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’

‘The ball was out.’

‘No, it wasn’t.’

The twins’ voices echoed intrusively from the tennis court, and Fliss, seated rather uncomfortably on the rim of the goldfish pond, thought how indifferent they seemed to their father’s demise. But then they were only fifteen and, as far as she could gather, none of the Hastingses seemed particularly distraught about Mr Hastings’ death. Bitter, yes; angry, certainly. But heartbroken, distressed, grief-stricken—no.

‘Isn’t it absolutely bloody sickening?’

Her fiancé, Robert, rocking rather more comfortably on the swing-set, set the cushioned seat moving at a nauseating pace. Fliss, who had been envying him his position only moments before, was glad she wasn’t sitting beside him now. She was sure she would have been sick.

‘I feel sorry for your mother,’ she said, after a moment, not quite knowing how to answer him. The discovery that Mr Hastings had been leading a double life was embarrassing, no doubt, and Mrs Hastings couldn’t avoid being the brunt of some gossip in the cloistered environs of Sutton Magna.

Robert was unsympathetic. ‘Why feel sorry for her?’ he demanded unfeelingly, revealing a side of his character Fliss had been totally unaware of until recently. ‘If it weren’t for her, the old man wouldn’t have looked elsewhere for his pleasures. She’s a cold fish, my mother. Or hadn’t you noticed?’

In actual fact, Fliss had noticed. Her own dealings with Robert’s mother had never been exactly friendly. Amanda Hastings didn’t encourage any kind of closeness between the girl her only son was going to marry and herself, and although Fliss was a frequent visitor to the house she didn’t feel at home there.

Nevertheless …

‘Imagine,’ Robert went on in the same bitter vein, ‘having a Chinese mistress! God, do you suppose she’ll bring a whole gaggle of orientals with her? The Chinese are big on family ties, aren’t they? Dammit, Fliss, how could the old bastard do this to us?’

Fliss tried to be practical. ‘Mr Davis didn’t say anything about the girl’s having a family,’ she pointed out, but Robert wasn’t convinced.

‘Huh, Davis,’ he grunted. ‘What does he know? Where’s the girl’s mother? That’s what I’d like to know. Is she expecting a share of this, as well as her daughter?’

‘So far as we know there only is—Rose Chen? Is that right?’ replied Fliss, more calmly than she felt. ‘The girl’s probably an orphan. That’s why your father felt some responsibility for her.’

‘But what about us?’ protested Robert. ‘Liz and Dody and me? You don’t seem to realise, Fliss, my father has left her half of everything. The trading company; the shops; even this house! What if she wants to sell it? Where are we going to live?’

Fliss could see it was a problem, though for herself she wouldn’t be sorry if she and Robert didn’t have to live at the house after they were married. Sutton Grange, as it was rather pretentiously called, was not an attractive example of Victorian architecture, and she much preferred the old vicarage, where she and her father lived.

Not that she and Robert could move in there, she conceded, in a momentary digression. Although Robert and the Reverend Matthew Hayton tolerated one another’s company, she couldn’t deny they had little in common. Since her mother had died some years ago her father had developed an interest in local history, and every moment he had free from his duties as the village clergyman he spent researching the parish records. He had no interest in sailing, or horse-racing, or playing golf. Or in fine arts either, Fliss conceded.

As far as Fliss was concerned, her mother’s death, while she was still at university actually, had left a void in both their lives no one else could fill. And because her father obviously needed someone, not just to take over his wife’s role in the community, but also to act as his secretary, she had found herself accepting that position, and abandoning any ambitions she had had to have a career of her own.

She had never really regretted it, even though the life she led in this Buckinghamshire backwater was vastly different from the life led by most young women of her age. At twenty-six she enjoyed an almost bucolic existence, and only since her engagement to Robert Hastings had she had the kind of social life he had always taken for granted.

Which was why, she supposed, Mrs Hastings had not been exactly enthusiastic about the match. Robert’s mother had no doubt expected him to marry someone from a similar background to their own; someone whose father was fairly wealthy, or whose family had a title. A daughter-in-law she could present to the world, a daughter-in-law she could be proud of.

Fliss knew she was none of those things. Vicars’ daughters were not titled, and they were not wealthy, and as for Mrs Hastings being proud of her, well … She shrugged her slim shoulders. She had often wondered what Robert saw in her, what had possibly persuaded him to ask her out?

They had met at the village fair last autumn. Fliss had been in charge of the book stall as usual, spending at least part of the time examining the merchandise, indulging herself shamelessly in any and every volume. Books were Fliss’s one weakness, and she invariably bought the books herself if no one else was interested.

Why Robert had been there at all, she couldn’t imagine. The noise and bustle of a village fair didn’t seem his scene at all. Though he had been interested in the bric-a-brac stall, she remembered. Probably in the hope of snaring a bargain. Mr Hastings owned several fine art shops, and, although no one could confuse Mrs Darcy’s pot dogs and stuffed owls with fine art, just occasionally a piece of crystal or a chipped Crown Derby plate found its way on to the stall.

She had been admiring an old copy of poems by Lord Tennyson when Robert had stopped at her stall. His appearance had surprised her, but Fliss seldom got flustered. Indeed, she was of the opinion that she was one of those people who didn’t have it in them to feel any uncontrollable surge of excitement, and although her golden eyes widened she was perfectly composed.

And, unaware as she was of it, it was that air of cool untouchability that caught and held Robert Hastings’ interest. That, and the fact that she was tall—taller than average—and unfashionably curvaceous, with full, rounded breasts, and long, shapely legs. She also had a mass of sun-streaked brown hair, that hung quite untidily about her shoulders. In short, she was an extremely feminine example of her breed, and if her nose was too long, and her mouth too wide, the overall impression was delightful.

So much so that Robert, a fairly discerning connoisseur of her sex, was instantly attracted, and showed it. Much to her father’s dismay, she was sure, he had spent the remainder of the afternoon hanging round her stall, and when the fair was over he’d spirited her off to the pub for a drink.

Fliss, who seldom drank anything stronger than the communion wine, found herself with a cocktail glass on one hand and an ardent suitor on the other, and for once she was glad she wasn’t easily excited. Another girl might have been bowled over by the fact that probably the most eligible bachelor for miles around was giving her his undivided attention. As it was, Fliss found it all rather amusing, and not at all worrying as her father seemed to think.

And, although Robert might have expected a different response from a young woman without any obvious advantages, he had soon had to accept that, if he wanted to get anywhere with Fliss, he would have to be a lot less arrogant, and a lot more patient. And he had been. To her immense surprise and amazement, he admitted to having fallen in love with her, and, as an abortive affair when she was in college was all Fliss had to compare her own affection for him with, she had come to the eventual conclusion that she must love him too. Certainly she liked being with him. He was warm and affectionate, and he made her feel good.

And, after a winter in which Robert had sustained his assault on her emotions, she had finally agreed to his announcing their engagement. The only disadvantage she had found since that event was Robert was now twice as eager to consummate—as he put it—their relationship; only consummation, as a vicar’s daughter, meant something rather different to Fliss …

‘I should think,’ she said carefully now, desperate to escape the implications of that particular thought for the present, and returning to the subject of the house, ‘that your mother might welcome the opportunity to find somewhere smaller.’ Knowing Mrs Hastings as she did, she doubted this was really true, but she pressed on anyway. ‘I mean, now that your father’s—dead——’ she licked her upper lip delicately ‘—she won’t have to host all those country weekends and dinner parties that Mr Hastings wished upon her.’

Robert stared at her impatiently. ‘You’re not serious.’

Fliss smoothed slender fingers over a bare shoulder, exposed by the bootlace straps of her sundress, and gave a little shrug. ‘Why not?’

‘Why not?’ Robert was briefly diverted by the unknowing sensuality of her action, but he eventually shook his head as if to clear it, and exclaimed irritably, ‘As I shall be running the company from now on, this should have been my house, not my mother’s. And as for entertaining, I should have been hosting all social occasions from now on.’

‘Yes, I know, but——’

‘This was going to be our home, yours and mine,’ he added grimly. ‘We would have carried on the family tradition.’

Fliss had been afraid of that, and she wondered if it would be too disloyal of her to feel some relief that the prospect had been put in jeopardy. Was Robert suggesting they would have lived here with his mother and his twin sisters? Dear God, she couldn’t have done that. It simply wasn’t on.

She also forbore from pointing out that the ‘family tradition’ he spoke about was barely twenty years old. As far as the villagers were concerned, they were still newcomers. Besides, James Hastings’ indiscretions were bound to put a halt to any delusions of grandeur.

‘Well,’ she said evenly, ‘whatever happens, I think we should start married life in a home of our own. Not here. We should choose our own place. Somewhere we can decorate and furnish as we like.’

Robert brought the swing to a sudden halt. ‘What’s wrong with the Grange?’

‘Nothing.’ Fliss realised she had to be tactful here. ‘But this is your mother’s home—at least, for the present. And—and it’s Liz and Dody’s home, too. Haven’t you just said so?’

Robert frowned, the deepening cleft between his blonde brows drawing attention to the fairness of his skin. Even in the height of summer, Robert’s flesh never changed colour. The sun might burn it sometimes, but he never got a tan.

Conversely, Fliss’s skin was of that creamy variety that browned easily. Unlike her hair, which was bleached by the sun’s rays, her arms and legs took on the healthy glow of honey. A fact that dismayed Mrs Hastings, who protected her own skin with almost fanatical zeal.

‘I don’t want to move,’ Robert declared now, his gaze moving over the acres of formal garden to where his sisters still squabbled on the tennis court. And it was true, the neatly trimmed hedges and rose gardens were a delight, particularly at this time of year.

‘Maybe you won’t have to,’ Fliss offered, stifling for the moment her own misgivings about living at Sutton Grange. ‘You’re endowing this woman—Rose Chen—with characteristics you can’t possibly know she possesses. She may be just as upset by the situation as you are. Didn’t you say Mr Davis was of the opinion that she hadn’t known the truth before your father’s will was read?’

Robert shrugged his shoulders. He was a tall man, inclined to sturdiness, and he had played rugby in his youth. In fact he was still a formidable opponent on the field. Yet, for all that, there was a certain weakness about his chin that had nothing to do with his good looks, and a sulkiness about his mouth that was presently all too apparent.

‘You don’t really believe that, Fliss, do you?’ he asked, and although his expression hadn’t changed his voice was softer. ‘Oh, hell, and this was supposed to be the happiest year of our lives. We were getting married at Christmas. I don’t know what’s going to happen now.’

He held out his hand towards her, and, not sorry to leave the concrete rim of the pond, Fliss allowed him to pull her on to his lap. The swing rocked gently now as he nuzzled his face against her shoulder, and she wished there were something she could say to ease his troubled thoughts.

‘There’s plenty of time,’ she comforted, putting her arm about his neck and cradling his head against her breast. Really, she thought, there had been occasions lately when she’d felt more like Robert’s mother than his girlfriend. He could appear totally helpless at times.

Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration, she conceded quickly, feeling his hand invading the camisole neckline of her dress. She shouldn’t mistake petulance for vulnerability. Robert was usually fairly adept at getting what he wanted, and who knew that he wouldn’t soon have the Chinese girl, his half-sister, Rose Chen, eating out of his hand?

She was about to put his hand away when one of the twins, Fliss thought it was Dody, came tearing across the lawn, and achieved her objective for her. ‘Rob! Rob!’ Dody was calling, her plump adolescent legs pumping urgently inside her biker’s shorts. ‘Rob, Mummy says you’ve got to come up to the terrace immediately. That woman’s arrived! Our—sister! And she’s brought ever such a gorgeous hunk with her!’

Even allowing for Dody’s tendency towards exaggeration, Fliss had to admit that Oliver Lynch was one of the most disturbing men she had ever laid eyes on. The most disturbing, she suspected, although that seemed a little disloyal towards Robert.

Nevertheless, Oliver Lynch did present a most imposing presence, and even Robert, at six feet exactly, had to look up at the older man. And he was much older, Fliss decided, using that acknowledgement as a means of reparation. He might not look it, but he had to be forty-one or -two, at least. To a polite question from Mrs Hastings, he had admitted to spending some time in Vietnam, and that war had been over for twenty years or more.

But the fact remained, he was disturbing, and attractive. He wasn’t handsome, as Robert was handsome. His features were too strongly moulded for that. But there was something very masculine—very sexual—about deep-set eyes, hollow cheekbones and a thin-lipped mouth. In some ways it was a cruel face, enhanced by the unconventional length of his hair. Long and black, he pushed it back with a careless hand, the rolled-back sleeves of his shirt exposing a long white scar that marked the flesh from elbow to wrist.

He not only looked disturbing, he disturbed her, thought Fliss uneasily, not really understanding why this should be so. She tried to tell herself it was because of Robert, that his association with the woman, Rose Chen, made him as much of a threat as she was, but that wasn’t it. If she was honest she would admit he disturbed her in a much more personal, purely visceral way. Just looking at him caused a curious pain to stir, down deep in her stomach. And when Rose Chen touched his arm, or his hand, as she did frequently—as if she needed to display her possession—Fliss looked away, as if the image offended her.

Of course it was all quite silly, she reproved herself half mockingly. She didn’t even know why she was giving him a second thought. It wasn’t as if she had any desire to change her comfortable existence. However petulant Robert might be, he was also tender and kind, and incredibly patient. Not characteristics she could apply to Oliver Lynch, she was sure.

From her position, curled up on one of the cushioned lounges at the far end of the terrace, she was able to observe the behaviour of the other people present without drawing attention to herself. They were all being amazingly civil, she thought, remembering how bitter Robert had been before their arrival. But then his mother hadn’t met Oliver Lynch then, nor been seduced by his southern courtesy and charm.

Forcing her attention away from Oliver Lynch, she wondered what her fiancé was really thinking. Tea had been served, and presently he was exchanging pleasantries about their journey with the woman, Rose Chen. No one could be more polite, or more facile, than an Englishman, Fliss reflected drily. Unless it was an American. There was no denying that Oliver Lynch was displaying his share of diplomacy.

She forced her mind back to the Chinese woman. Rose Chen—was that really her name?—was older, too, than they had expected. Was that why they were all being so civil to her? Had the realisation that she was not a young girl reassured Amanda Hastings of her own credibility?

Whatever, it was obvious that Mr Hastings’ affair with Rose Chen’s mother must have happened at least thirty years ago. Maybe thirty-five. Fliss couldn’t be absolutely certain. And if that was the case, Robert hadn’t even been born when his father took a mistress.

‘Do you think she’s his mistress?’

The whispered words so closely following Fliss’s thoughts, caused her to gaze at one of Robert’s sisters blankly.

‘Who?’ she answered, in an undertone, hoping no one else was listening to their exchange, and the twin—Liz, she thought—rolled her eyes impatiently.

‘Oliver Lynch, of course,’ she hissed, glancing surreptitiously over her shoulder. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it, too. I saw you looking at him earlier.’

Fliss was glad the vine-clad roof that overhung the terrace cast her face into shadow. Liz’s words had caused a faint tinge of hot colour to enter her cheeks, and she wouldn’t have liked to have to explain it to anyone else. ‘Contrary to what people of your age believe, older women do not speculate about other people’s sexual habits as soon as they’ve been introduced,’ she replied quellingly. ‘He could be her husband, as far as we know.’ Though that caused another discomforting flutter in her stomach. ‘It’s nothing to do with us.’

‘Older women!’ said Liz disparagingly, picking up on the one topic she could argue with. ‘You’re not old, Fliss, and you know it.’

‘I’m twenty-six, and sometimes I feel old enough to be your mother,’ retorted Fliss drily. ‘In any case, that has nothing to do with it, I’m not interested in Mr Lynch.’

‘Mummy is.’ Liz tipped her head defiantly. ‘She hasn’t taken her eyes off him since he and—Rose Chen—got out of the car. Did you see the car he was driving, by the way? I think it’s a Ferrari. It’s long and low and really mean. Dody was nearly drooling!’

Fliss shook her head. ‘Liz! Your father’s only been dead just over three weeks. Show a little respect.’

Liz grimaced. ‘I’m not being disrespectful,’ she argued. ‘Haven’t you noticed the way Mummy’s stationed herself at his elbow? How old do you think he is, anyway? Eight—ten years younger than she is?’

‘Liz!’ Fliss was getting very impatient with this conversation. ‘Go and find someone else to pester, will you? You’re giving me a headache.’

‘That’s because you’re frustrated,’ Liz retaliated, in parting, and Fliss was so glad to see her go that she didn’t dispute it.

Instead, she uncoiled her legs from under her and reached for the cooling cup of tea resting on a nearby end table. She wished she could go, she thought. Robert didn’t need her at the moment, and she had no doubt she would hear all about his conversation with Rose Chen. To distraction, probably, she mused ruefully, recalling that since his father’s will had been read it had become almost the sole topic of conversation. She sympathised with him; or course she did. But surely half the company was enough to satisfy even the most prodigal of heirs. She appreciated the things that money could buy, but she couldn’t understand why some men were prepared to sacrifice everything, even their self-respect, in the pursuit of great wealth. Her father said it had to do with power, with the power that money brought. But Fliss—probably due to her father’s influence—had little use for either.

‘Are you?’

The lazily spoken enquiry was so unexpected that Fliss almost spilled her tea. She had been so absorbed with her thoughts that she had been unaware of anyone’s approach, least of all that of the man who had eased his long length into the chair beside hers.

‘I beg your pardon?’ she said, glad to find that for all her trepidation she sounded pleasantly composed. She crossed her legs, swiftly gathering together the skirt of her dress when its wraparound folds threatened to part. ‘Did you say something?’

‘I said—are you?’ Oliver Lynch repeated levelly, though she could tell from his expression that he didn’t believe she hadn’t heard him the first time. With an errant breeze lifting the ends of his dark hair, and his muscled forearms resting along his thighs, thighs that had parted to accommodate the booted feet set squarely on the floor of the terrace, he was too close for comfort. The neckline of his navy silk shirt was open to display a disturbing glimpse of body hair as well, and Fliss thought he looked like a predator, his casual air of relaxation as spurious as his smile.

‘Am I what?’ she asked politely, returning her fragile cup to its saucer. She gave him an enquiring look. ‘I fear you have me at a disadvantage, Mr—er—Lynch.’

Oliver Lynch’s thin lips parted. ‘I doubt that, ma’am,’ he countered, with equal formality. ‘The kid accused you of being frustrated. I wondered if you agreed.’

‘Did you?’ Fliss’s breath escaped with a rush. She didn’t believe it for a moment. ‘I don’t really think you expect me to answer that question.’ She glanced along the terrace and saw Robert’s mother watching them with undisguised hostility, and inwardly groaned. ‘Um—is this your first visit to England?’

‘No.’

He was non-committal, curiously pale eyes—wolf’s eyes, she decided imaginatively—assessing her appearance intently. Was he only trying to embarrass her? Or was he bored by their company, and eager for diversion? Whatever the prognosis, she wished he’d chosen someone else to practise on.

‘You’re an American,’ she observed now, striving for a neutral topic. ‘But you live in Hong Kong. Do you have business interests there, too?’

‘You could say that,’ he responded carelessly, and she immediately felt as if she was being unpardonably inquisitive. But, heavens, what was she supposed to say to a man who was so obviously out of her realm of experience? She had never considered herself particularly good at small talk, and his kind of verbal baiting left her feeling gauche.

‘Do you live in Sutton Magna, Miss Hayton?’ he asked after a moment, and Fliss was relieved he hadn’t made some other mocking comment. ‘Mandy says you’re going to marry Robert,’ he added, with a slight edge to his voice. ‘Is that right?’

Mandy?

It took Fliss a second to realise he was talking about Mrs Hastings. She had never heard Amanda Hastings referred to as ‘Mandy’ before. ‘Um—yes,’ she answered hurriedly. ‘To both your questions. My father is the local clergyman. Maybe you and—your friend would like to visit the church while you’re here. It’s a Norman church, and parts of it date back to the twelfth century.’

‘I’m not a tourist, Miss Hayton.’ Oliver Lynch’s tone was vaguely hostile now, and Fliss wondered what she had said to annoy him. She had only been trying to make conversation. There was no need for him to be rude.

But her innate good manners wouldn’t allow her to put him in his place as she should, so ‘I’m sorry,’ she said courteously. ‘I didn’t mean to imply you were.’

Oliver Lynch’s eyes darkened, a curious phenomenon that caused the pupils to dilate and almost obscure the pale irises. ‘Forget it,’ he said, his low voice harsh and impatient. ‘I’m an ignorant bastard. I guess I’m not used to mixing in polite company.’

Now what was she supposed to make of that? Fliss’s tongue moved rather nervously over her upper lip. She wasn’t sure how to answer him, and she wished Robert’s mother would stop scowling at her and come to her rescue.

‘Er—let me get you some more tea, Mr Lynch,’ she ventured, relieved at the inspiration. ‘It really is a hot afternoon, and I’m sure you must be thirsty.’

‘I am,’ he agreed, his pupils resuming their normal size, and a humorous grin lifting the corners of his mouth. ‘But——’ he laid a hand on her bare arm as she would have got to her feet ‘—not for tea! If there’s a beer lying around here, I’ll take it. But not more of the lukewarm—stuff—I was offered earlier.’

Fliss jerked her arm back as if he’d burned her. And indeed, the sensation his hand had induced on her flesh was not unlike that description. His fingers, lean and hard and cool, had left an indelible imprint. So much so that, for a moment, she had hardly been aware of what he was saying.

Instead, she found herself wondering how it would feel to have his hands on her body; and not just her limbs, which were already melting at the thought. But on her waist; her hips; her breasts. She caught her breath. The idea that he might also touch her intimately was a fascinating prospect, and it took Robert’s voice to arouse her from the dangerous spiral of her thoughts.

‘I see you’ve introduced yourself to my fiancée, Lynch. What have you been saying to make her look so guilty?’

The American rose in one lithe easy movement, in no way daunted by the faint edge of animosity in the Englishman’s tone. ‘Oh—we were discussing the relative merits of tea, among other things,’ he replied, not altogether untruthfully. ‘As a stranger in your country, I’m not accustomed to the—customs.’

Robert seemed to realise there was something rather ambiguous about this statement, but short of asking what he meant outright there was little he could say. ‘Well, I hope Fliss has satisfied your curiosity,’ he remarked tightly. ‘Naturally, we’ll all do what we can to make your stay as pleasant as possible.’

Oliver Lynch’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, but there was genuine warmth in his voice as he replied, ‘Your fiancée has been most charming. I hope you appreciate her.’

‘Oh, I do.’ Even if Fliss had not been thinking of getting to her feet at that moment, she felt sure the possessive hand Robert placed about her arm would have achieved it. There was anger now, as well as proprietorial ownership, in the way he drew her up beside him, sliding his arm about her waist, as if to underline his claim. ‘Fliss is my one weakness,’ he said, though there was little leniency in his voice. ‘She can wrap me round her finger any time she likes.’ And, bending his head towards her, he bestowed a prolonged kiss on her startled mouth.

If Fliss hadn’t been embarrassed before, she was now, with Oliver Lynch’s pale eyes observing their every move. If it weren’t so fanciful she’d have said he knew what she was thinking. Though not what she’d thought before, please God, she prayed with some conviction.

‘You’re a very lucky man,’ Lynch remarked now, into the vacuum that Fliss felt was as visible as it was heard. If Robert had intended to disconcert the other man, he was going to be sadly disappointed. Oliver Lynch was only amused by her fiancé’s behaviour. Amused at, and slightly contemptuous of, his attempt to display possession.




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_674712e9-fad6-58c7-8be0-5e88439a86a9)


‘BUT why do we have to have separate rooms?’ asked Rose Chen impatiently. ‘It’s not as if we have to keep our relationship a secret or anything. I know you’ve always insisted on keeping your own apartment in Hong Kong, but surely this is different? We are travelling together.’

‘I’ve told you: I need my own space,’ said Oliver shortly, growing tired of the argument they had been having since they booked into the hotel.

They were staying at the Moathouse in Market Risborough, which was the nearest town to Sutton Magna. The night before, Rose had stayed with her father’s agent in Fulham, and Oliver had occupied a room in a small hotel off Piccadilly.

Rose heaved a deep breath now. ‘Have I done something wrong?’ she demanded. ‘I thought our first meeting with the Hastingses went off rather well. At least they aren’t openly hostile. It was a brilliant idea of yours to make the first move so informal. They could hardly throw us out without creating quite a fuss.’ She paused. ‘Though I did detect some undercurrents, didn’t you?’

‘Maybe.’

Oliver was non-committal. In truth, he hadn’t devoted as much attention to the reasons why they had gone to Sutton Grange as he should. From the moment he’d laid eyes on Felicity Hayton he’d been hard pressed to keep his mind on anything else. Her cool, honey-blonde beauty had done forgotten things to his nervous system. Just thinking about how her skin felt-smooth and soft beneath his fingers—still caused a definite tightening in his groin.

Which was fairly pathetic, and he knew it. Ever since the youthful marriage he had contracted in college had ended with a ‘Dear John’ letter while he was in Vietnam, he had had no use for emotional relationships. There had been women, of course—plenty of them, he acknowledged without conceit—but they had served their purpose and been forgotten. He supposed his association with Rose Chen was the closest thing to a permanent relationship he had had since his teenage years.

But it was just a job, and one which he sometimes despised himself for. He liked Rose, he admired her spirit, and sometimes he’d even felt some affection towards her. But he didn’t love her. He doubted he had ever really loved anyone.

‘Something is wrong, isn’t it?’ Rose was nothing if not persistent. ‘What did Robert say to you? He wasn’t awkward or anything, was he? I know his mother was a real pain, but I thought he kept his cool.’

Except where his fiancée was concerned, thought Oliver drily, remembering the way the other man had dragged Felicity—Fliss—up from her chair and practically savaged her. Oliver could still feel the fury he had felt when Hastings had put his hands upon her. He hadn’t cared at that moment whether the younger man had known of his father’s dealings or not. All he’d wanted to do was put his hands about the other man’s thick neck and squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze …

‘He’s a runt,’ declared Oliver succinctly, his own feelings briefly getting the better of him. He knew it wouldn’t do to alert Rose Chen to the dislike he felt for her half-brother, but it felt good to voice his contempt just the same.

‘You think so?’

Naturally, Rose Chen was interested in his opinion, and Oliver had to quickly fabricate a reason for his remark. ‘I gathered from his mother that he doesn’t like work,’ he said dismissively. ‘If even half what she says is true, he seems to spend most of his time either at the race-track or on the golfcourse.’

‘I see.’ Rose Chen caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘That could be useful, couldn’t it? If Robert isn’t too familiar with running the business, he may not be so opposed to my taking charge.’

‘In a pig’s eye,’ said Oliver, wondering if Rose could really be as gullible as she liked to appear. Personally he didn’t believe it for a moment. She was James Hastings’ daughter; she must know what there was at stake.

Rose Chen lifted her slim shoulders now. She’d worn a cream silk suit to go to Sutton Magna, but she’d shed the jacket since she got back, and her arms were bare. Her hair was short, moulding her shapely head like a black cap. Her small breasts were taut against her silk vest, and the short skirt of the suit showed her legs to advantage. She was small and exotic and sexy, but Oliver felt no attraction as she preened before his gaze.

The trouble was, he was comparing her dainty appearance to the long-legged Englishwoman he had met on the Hastingses’ terrace. And, although Fliss didn’t possess Rose Chen’s sophistication, she was infinitely more feminine. Tall, easily five feet eight, he guessed, and not thin in the way most women these days were thin, but supple, and shapely, with breasts a man could die for. She was elegant and classy, with legs that went on forever. Not at all like the women he was used to, with her golden skin and hair …

‘Whatever,’ Rose Chen murmured carelessly, lifting her arms and cupping the back of her neck. Her oval eyes sought Oliver’s as he lounged against the writing table. ‘I think I’ll take a shower. D’you want to join me?’

Oliver straightened. ‘No, thanks,’ he said swiftly, and then tempered his refusal with a brief smile. ‘I’ve got some unpacking to do, and I thought I might call home.’ He grimaced. ‘It’s cheaper ringing from London than it is from the Far East.’

Rose Chen hid her impatience badly. ‘We will dine together, I assume? You won’t be too tired? Or suffering from jet-lag?’

Oliver strolled towards the door. ‘I’ll try to keep awake,’ he responded over his shoulder. ‘Shall we say seven-thirty? We’d better not make it too late. Hastings is picking you up at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, isn’t he?’

‘He’s picking us up,’ amended Rose Chen tersely. ‘I want you to come with me, Lee. You’re so much better at reading people’s faces than I am.’

Oliver acknowledged her remark with lazy indulgence, but as soon as the door had closed behind him he frowned. He knew that as far as the colonel was concerned things could not be going better. The old man had actually asked Oliver to try and get inside the Hastings offices and find out as much as he could about distribution and so on. And, while accompanying Rose Chen was not quite what he had had in mind, it might be possible to use the visit to his own advantage.

He called Hong Kong while he was waiting for room service to deliver the bottle of Scotch he’d ordered. It was already the early hours of the following morning there, but he guessed Colonel Lightfoot would be waiting for his call. Rose Chen had no idea that ‘calling home’ were his own code words for keeping in touch with the agency. So far as she was concerned, he was keeping in touch with his family. And, doubtless he’d do that, too, if only to cover himself. Besides, his mother would appreciate it.

Colonel Lightfoot’s voice was barely drowsy. If he had been asleep, he was one of those people who was instantly awake. Oliver guessed he’d half expected him to call the previous evening. But until he’d encountered Robert Hastings he’d really had nothing to report.

‘The family,’ said the colonel, after Oliver’s initial impressions had been aired. ‘Do you think his wife is aware of what’s been going on?’

‘Difficult to say.’ Oliver wasn’t sure what he thought about Amanda Hastings. The woman had come on to him, but that might have been her way of sounding him out. She had certainly been curious about his relationship with Rose Chen, but once again she might have had her own reasons for asking so many questions.

‘You say you’re going to the company’s offices tomorrow?’ The colonel didn’t waste time on speculation. ‘I don’t think anyone will make any mistakes while you’re around, but you may be able to assess whether Rose Chen has any authority.’

Oliver absorbed this without comment. Unless the upheaval of learning she was Robert Hastings’ daughter had made Rose Chen more vulnerable, he doubted he would learn anything from her behaviour. As far as business was concerned, Rose Chen had been the ideal employee: she had respected her employer’s confidence, and never betrayed any of his secrets, even in the heat of passion.

‘Of course, it’s her reaction to Robert Hastings we’re interested in,’ the colonel went on doggedly. ‘The apparent animosity between them may be just a front. We can’t be absolutely sure that neither of them knew of the other’s existence before Hastings cashed his chips.’

Oliver didn’t argue, but personally he was fairly sure they hadn’t. Even without Rose Chen’s response he had sensed that, for all his apparent affability towards his half-sister, Robert Hastings was inwardly seething.

There had been that moment with his fiancée, for example. He hadn’t just been reacting to the fact that another man was showing her some attention—though if he’d known Oliver’s thoughts he might have been; there had been anger and barely suppressed violence in his actions. And it hadn’t been just because he was a man. It was who he was that mattered. As far as Hastings was concerned, he—Oliver—was irrevocably linked with Rose Chen.

‘You’re not saying a lot,’ Colonel Lightfoot commented at last, and Oliver gathered his drifting thoughts.

‘There’s not a lot to say,’ he responded evenly. ‘I’ll be in touch again when I’ve got something to report.’

‘Right.’ The colonel hesitated. ‘You wouldn’t go soft on me, would you, Lynch? I’d hate to see that solid gold reputation sullied because you’ve let your—sexual urges—rule your head. I know you care about the woman. But don’t think that warning her will do her any good.’

The short laugh Oliver uttered then was ironic. If only Archie knew, he thought wryly. It wasn’t his Chinese nemesis the colonel had to worry about. It was a cool, innocent Englishwoman, Oliver was remembering. With skin as sweet as honey, and hair as fine as silk …

‘And you say Robert isn’t coming to terms with the situation?’ Matthew Hayton remarked thoughtfully, looking at his daughter over the rims of his spectacles. ‘Well, I don’t really see what choice he’s got.’

‘Nor do I,’ averred Fliss energetically. ‘The woman’s identity’s been verified and, if that wasn’t enough, she’s shown a remarkable aptitude for filling the void left by Mr Hastings’ death. Honestly, Rose Chen knows more about the business than Robert ever has. She’s a natural organiser, and she certainly gets things done.’

‘Which is probably another reason why Robert objects to her presence,’ declared the Reverend Matthew Hayton drily. ‘I mean, you can’t deny that Robert seldom showed a great deal of interest in the company when his father was alive. He spent more time playing golf and sailing his yacht than he ever did in the office.’

‘Robert’s always maintained that his father never gave him any responsibility,’ Fliss exclaimed loyally. ‘And after all, Mr Hastings was only in his fifties. Who’d have thought he’d die so young? He never seemed to have much stress in his life. Though I suppose if he was leading a double life there must have been some strain.’

‘Hardly a double life, Felicity.’ Her father was the only person who ever called her by her given name, and now he viewed his daughter with some misgivings. ‘We can’t really speculate about Hastings’ life in Hong Kong. And if neither Robert nor——’

‘Rose Chen?’

‘—nor Rose Chen knew of each other’s existence, the affair—if that was what it was—must have been over some time ago.’

Fliss nodded. ‘I suppose so.’

‘In any event, it’s not our concern, Felicity, and I hope you don’t encourage Robert to criticise his father’s behaviour.’ He pushed his spectacles back up his nose, and returned his attention to the sermon he was trying to compose. ‘People who live in glass houses, Felicity. Need I say more?’

Fliss snorted. ‘I don’t encourage Robert to talk about his father, Dad, but he does it anyway.’ She grimaced. ‘He talks about little else. Oh, and he moans about Oliver Lynch’s influence on Rose Chen, as well. Apparently, she’s insisted he sits in on their meetings—like a skeleton at the feast, according to Rob.’

Matthew Hayton looked up again. ‘Oliver Lynch?’ he frowned. ‘Oh, that American you said had accompanied her. What is he? Her accountant? Her solicitor?’

Fliss shuffled the pile of reference books she had been tidying, and gave a careless shrug of her shoulders. ‘Her—partner, I think,’ she said, bending her head so her father shouldn’t see the colour that had stained her cheeks at his words.

‘Her partner?’ Matthew Hayton frowned. ‘You mean, he has a share in the business, too?’

‘No.’ Fliss wished she hadn’t mentioned Oliver Lynch at all. ‘He’s her—boyfriend, I believe. At least, Robert says she can’t keep her hands off him.’

‘I see.’ Her father arched his brows that were several shades lighter than his daughter’s. ‘And Robert thinks this man exercises some undue influence on his—sister, is that right?’

‘Well—something like that,’ agreed Fliss uncomfortably. ‘No one seems to know what he does exactly. He doesn’t appear to have a job, and—well, Robert thinks he must be living off Rose Chen.’ She hesitated and then added reluctantly, ‘He certainly wears expensive clothes for someone without any obvious means of support.’

Matthew Hayton took off his spectacles now, and gave his daughter a reproving look. ‘Felicity, this is all hearsay, isn’t it? I doubt very much whether Robert has actually asked Rose Chen what this man—Lynch, did you say?—does.’

‘No, but—’

‘He may be a man of substance. He may have independent means. I don’t think you should immediately assume he’s some kind of—what’s the word?—pimp? Just because Robert’s feeling betrayed by his father’s deception.’

‘No,’ said Fliss again, but with rather less emphasis. And, after all, her father had a point. Robert really did know nothing about Oliver Lynch. If she was perfectly honest, she’d have to admit that she’d only sympathised with him because she’d been intimidated by Oliver Lynch’s tall, dark presence.

‘So, what did you think of the man?’ Reverend Hayton prompted now, and Fliss realised that her careless words had got her into even deeper water. The last thing she wanted to do was discuss Oliver Lynch with her father. Particularly as her reaction to him had been so disturbingly confused.

‘He seemed—very nice,’ she said carefully, avoiding making any statement that might initiate a follow-up. ‘Um—I think I’ll go over to the church. I promised Mrs Rennie I’d help her with the flowers.’

Her father looked as if he might have some further comment to make, and she balled her fists in the pockets of the linen trousers she was wearing as she waited for the verbal axe to fall. But all Matthew Hayton said was, ‘Ask Mr Brewitt to check on the communion wine, if you see him,’ before pushing his spectacles back in place and returning to his sermon.

Outside the pleasantly cool environs of her father’s study, the air was hot and decidedly humid. At this time of year, any long spell of hot weather was usually followed by a bout of thunderstorms, and the sky had that ominous overcast sheen that often heralded bad weather.

Other than that, the village looked rather pretty at the moment. The cottage gardens were filled with every kind of flower imaginable, and sunflowers and hollyhocks rose thickly above the rest. There were geraniums, too, in great numbers, spilling from every hedge and border, and tumbling riotously from stone urns and planters. Only the lawns looked rather parched, because sprinklers had been forbidden.

The vicarage garden was no different from the rest, and Fliss, who invariably ended up having to do the weeding herself, viewed its dried beds with some misgivings. The church did employ a caretaker, part of whose duties was to keep the grass neat in the churchyard, and to look after the rather large gardens of the vicarage. Church fetes were always held on the back lawn, and it was important to keep the weeds at bay. But Mr Hood was really too old now to do all that was needed. Even with a tractor mower, he found it hard to pull his weight. Not that the Reverend would ever force him to retire, thought Fliss affectionately. Not as long as Mr Hood wanted to work. Until he chose to retire, the job was his.

Walking up the gravel path to the vestry door, Fliss lifted the weight of her hair from her neck with a slightly weary hand. She really ought to have her hair cut, she thought ruefully. Or confine it permanently in a braid. Having long hair might look nice, but it certainly wasn’t easy to handle. And it could be rather tiresome at this time of year.

Still, it wasn’t really her hair that was making her feel so tired all of a sudden. The truth was, she wasn’t sleeping well. These warm, humid nights left her feeling limp, not rested, and the problems Robert was having were creating troubles for her, too.

Ever since their engagement, Robert’s attitude towards her had become more and more possessive, and she wondered if it was because she had so far evaded giving in to his demands that he was so aggressive. Since Rose Chen came on the scene he had become increasingly persistent, and he was no longer willing to make compromises. He wanted her, he said. Not at some nebulous date in the future, but now. Nothing in his life was certain any more, and he needed her with him to keep him sane.

Her protestations that she was with him, that possession was nine-tenths in the mind anyway, didn’t persuade him. How could he feel she was really his when she drew the line at the bedroom door? he asked. When two people loved one another, there should be no lines, no barriers.

Of course, there were other arguments: that she was prudish and old-fashioned—arguments she couldn’t really defend. Perhaps she was both those things, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. Sex had never figured highly in her thoughts.

And the truth was, although she liked Robert, and cared about him, after her experience at college she didn’t know if she had it in her to feel any more deeply than that. There were women—she had read about them in magazines—who were happily married, with a handful of children, who’d never known what real passion was. The importance of feeling loved, of feeling wanted, was what they cared about. Orgasm—a word which was freely bandied about today, and which her father abhorred—was not something she was eager to experience. She was sure it was vastly over-rated; something men had introduced to try and get their way.

She sighed. Not that that conclusion in any way solved her problem. She still had to deal with Robert’s plans for their future. If only she were a more emotional person, she thought wistfully. It wouldn’t seem so coldblooded then, discussing the terms of her surrender.

When she reached the porch, she noticed a car parked at the kerb, just beyond the lych-gate. It was a black saloon, long and sleek, but nothing like the racy sports car Rose Chen and her escort had arrived in a week ago. She expelled her breath rather relievedly, not really appreciating, until that moment, that she’d experienced a moment’s unease. It wasn’t that the sight of a strange car alarmed her, she assured herself. Because of its history, the old church occasionally attracted visitors in the summer months. It was the association with that other strange car that had startled her. And the realisation that she was not looking forward to meeting Oliver Lynch again.

Entering the church, she immediately felt the sense of peace that always invaded her consciousness whenever she did so. Perhaps she wasn’t meant to be a wife at all, she reflected thoughtfully. She got so much pleasure from spiritual things; perhaps she ought to consider becoming a nun.

She was smiling to herself, thinking how horrified her father would feel at this suggestion, as she pushed open the door into the choir. It was quite dark in the church, the overcast sky leaving the pulpit in shadow. Mrs Rennie hadn’t put on any of the lights; indeed, there was no sign of Mrs Rennie at all. Instead, a man was standing at the foot of the nave, gazing silently up at the altar.

Fliss’s heart skipped a beat, and, although she endeavoured to calm herself, the realisation that she wasn’t alone had given her quite a shock. But it wasn’t just the presence of a solitary man that had startled her. It was the awareness of who that man was that had her wishing she were any place but here …




CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_4ebe701a-1eaa-5b84-8f94-1ab13064e405)


IT WAS Oliver Lynch. Even without the evidence of his superior height, she would have known it was him immediately. It was something she didn’t understand; something she certainly didn’t wish to consider. A kind of recognition in her bones that left her feeling weak.

Why he should have this effect on her, she had no idea. It wasn’t as if she even liked the man. Their conversation on the terrace at Sutton Grange had left her with the uneasy impression that he could be totally ruthless if the occasion warranted it. And he’d had only contempt for Robert, of that she was very sure.

And now, here he was, invading the only place of sanctuary she had ever found. In a black shirt and black jeans, low-heeled black boots echoing solidly on the stone flags, he approached her, his expression mildly amused at her obvious disconcertment.

He appeared to be alone. A quick glance round the church assured her that the Chinese woman was not with him. So where was she? At the Grange? And why wasn’t he driving the Ferrari today, if the car outside was his?

But all these thoughts were secondary to her own unwelcome reaction to the man himself. Everything about him—from the perverse length of his hair to the lazy sensuality of his mouth—assaulted her senses. Even the way he moved was almost sinful in its grace and sexuality, and when he tucked his thumbs into the back of his belt his appeal was frankly carnal.

‘Hi,’ he said, and she wondered if he had recognised her as instantly as she had recognised him. Probably not, she decided tensely. He had to be aware of the effect he had on women.

‘Um—hello,’ she responded, rather offhandedly, wishing she had something in her hands—a vase or a bunch of flowers, for example—to give her a reason for being there. She’d hate him to think she’d followed him.

‘You’re right,’ he said, reaching the step that led up to the choir stalls, and resting one powerful hand on the rail. ‘It is a beautiful little church. I’m glad you told me about it.’

Fliss wished she hadn’t, but she took a steadying breath and moved out into the aisle. ‘We like it,’ she said, and for all her efforts to appear casual, she knew her voice sounded clipped. She swallowed. ‘Is—Miss Chen with you? I didn’t notice her car.’

‘My car—or at least the car I’ve hired—is outside,’ said Oliver, hopefully getting the message Fliss had been trying to convey. ‘And no: Rose isn’t with me. I drove down from London on my own.’

‘Oh.’

Fliss absorbed this with mixed feelings. She’d heard that Robert’s half-sister had found an apartment in London, that she intended to lease while she was in England. It obviously wasn’t practical for her to stay in an hotel, and although they’d stayed at the Moathouse in Market Risborough for a couple of nights they’d soon left the district. Besides, Robert said staying there had just been a ploy to get them into Sutton Grange. A successful ploy, as it had turned out. People were naturally less guarded in their own home.

And now, hearing Oliver say that he’d driven down from London confirmed that they were obviously still together. And why not? She was probably his meal ticket, for heaven’s sake. Whatever her father said, she believed Oliver Lynch was not just along for the ride.

‘That’s the house where you live, next door,’ he remarked, and Fliss was so relieved he hadn’t said anything controversial that she nodded.

‘The vicarage,’ she agreed, smoothing her damp palms over the seams of her trousers. ‘It’s old, too; though not as old as the church,’ she conceded.

‘And your father’s the vicar of Sutton Magna?’

‘Of Sutton Magna, Sherborne and Eryholme, actually,’ Fliss said, with an involuntary smile. ‘It sounds grand, but it isn’t really. Sutton Magna has the largest population.’

Oliver smiled, too, his thin lips parting over teeth as attractive as the rest of him. The smile—a genuine one this time—gave his lean features an irresistible charm and personality, and Fliss’s stomach quivered in involuntary response.

‘I suppose you spend a lot of time here,’ he said, and for a moment she was too dazed to understand what he meant. ‘In the church,’ he prompted, by way of an explanation. ‘I gather you act as your father’s deputy, as well as his secretary.’

Fliss wondered where he’d gathered that. Not from Robert, she was sure. Her fiancé hadn’t exchanged a civil word with the American, and she doubted she was a topic of conversation when Oliver and his mistress spoke together. If they did any speaking, she appended cattily …

‘Well, my mother’s dead,’ she told him reluctantly, bending to pluck a wilting bloom from the display of chrysanthemums that stood at the foot of the pulpit steps. ‘She died while I was at university.’

‘So you came home to look after your father,’ said Oliver, making no attempt to get out of her way. If she wanted to move into the body of the church, she would have to get past him. And with one foot propped on the step he was a formidable obstruction.

‘Er—well, he took my mother’s death rather badly,’ Fliss continued now, as much to keep their conversation on a fairly impersonal footing as to satisfy his curiosity. ‘She—she was quite young, you see, and a clergyman needs a wife.’

Oliver frowned, his dark brows drawing together above those pale, penetrating eyes. ‘So what will he do when you marry Hastings?’ he asked, and Fliss’s hopes of avoiding talking about her fiancé died a sudden death.

‘As Robert and I will be living in the village after we’re married, it shouldn’t be a problem,’ she declared, refusing to be any more specific than that. The fact that the Reverend Matthew Hayton had any number of village women all eager to assist him was not Oliver Lynch’s business. Nor that a certain widow from Eryholme was only waiting to be asked.




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